All This Bad Blood
by L. Alex Greene
Summary: Peter/Sylar series where each individual chapter is prompted by a song on Bastille's album All This Bad Blood. Begins just after Sylar gets trapped in his own head. M for future language and sexual content.
1. Get Home

**I have no chill and am physically unable to ship anything that will not cause me emotional distress. I call Sylar "Gabriel" pretty much consistently (aside from canon dialog where other characters call him Sylar) because I think by this point, he's already starting to come back to himself as Gabriel Gray and is slowly taking off the Sylar persona.**

 **My notes will always start with (some of) the applicable lyrics from the respective songs.**

 _ **"We are the greatest pretenders in the cold morning light.**_  
 _ **This is just another night, and we've had many of them...**_  
 _ **How am I gonna get myself back home?"**_

* * *

The last thing he remembered was Parkman trying, _one last time_ , to purge the hunger from him.

Then he wasn't in California anymore—somehow, he'd been transported back to New York, but it wasn't New York like he ever remembered. He wandered the streets, blocks and blocks of skyscrapers and cafes and storefronts and apartments, and everywhere he turned, he saw not a single face. There were no people, no cars or taxis, no sign of life aside from his own footfalls echoing through the eerily quiet streets.

He found himself in front of his own apartment building. A cold weight settled into his chest as he stared up into the vacant windows. A baby lived in the unit beneath him and he could usually hear her crying through the walls as he approached the entrance, but today, he heard nothing. There was nothing.

The front door of his apartment swung open without his key. Inside, all was as he'd left it—a single light burning in the kitchen, a cold welcome home. In his makeshift study, all the watches and clocks sat undisturbed, not even a layer of dust to mark the passage of time. Their ceaseless ticking was the only sound to be heard aside from his shallow breathing.

A feeling of dread washed over him, a feeling he had grown unfamiliar with. He whipped around and dashed out of his apartment, charging down the stairs to the apartment with the baby and her family. He tried the knob, and when that failed, he hammered on the door, kicking and hitting. "Lila! Jeremy! Are you in there?! Open up!" With no response, he shouted, "It's Gabriel! Gabriel Gray from upstairs! Let me in!"

Still no answer. He stepped back and sized up the door. It wasn't that thick. He could probably break it down. He kicked with his heel at the door, but when his foot came down, there wasn't so much as a dent.

He ran through the whole building, trying every single door. They were all locked, all but his. Where the hell was he?

Maybe he'd been transported into some strange, distant future where everyone else was dead. But there wasn't any sign of destruction, no hint that something cataclysmic had taken place, aside from the utter lack of people. What was going on? Was everyone dead?

He walked back out to the street, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Still deserted—still silent. Was he having a nightmare? He had no idea where he was. He was lost and confused.

And hungry. He'd been walking these streets for hours, and the sun, which had been shining brightly when he first regained awareness, was starting to grow dim. Streetlights flickered on overhead and he quickened his pace as he made his way to a grocery store near his apartment.

The sliding doors admitted him readily, but the aisles were vacant. It was like walking through a dream world. Venturing through the store was eerie—it was exactly like every other time he'd come through, right down to the bland music playing over the loudspeakers, except there wasn't a single person to be found.

He grabbed a shopping cart and began pulling food off the shelves. Noodles, butter, milk, cheese, ground beef, coffee—everything he could think of that he needed. At one point he doubled back to pick up a few more bags of coffee beans, only to discover that the gap left from before had been mysteriously filled in. His coffee beans were still in the shopping cart, though, so he just tossed a few more packages in and dismissed it.

He had no compunction about wheeling the cart right past the check-out line and out the door. After all, there was no one there—how was he supposed to pay for anything? He rolled his food right to his building and grabbed the cold stuff first, absently noting that despite the several-block walk, the food seemed to be retaining its temperature admirably. After three trips, he had all of his food put away, and he settled in to make some pasta.

Trying to sleep that night was fruitless. He was so used to the ambient New York noise seeping into the cracks in his walls that is absence was deafening. There were no neighbors shouting above him, no music thumping heavy bass lines down the hall, no baby crying below him. He hadn't even seen a bird or an insect since he'd arrived here, much less a neighbor's cat or a stray dog. No people. No animals. Just him and the concrete.

The last thing he remembered was something about wanting to change his life. Maybe Parkman would know—if he was still around. Could he go there now? But how would he get there? There were no cars anywhere out there, at least that he'd seen. He hadn't even noticed a bicycle chained to a bike rack. Presumably, he could walk. It would take months, but then again, if a city as densely-populated as New York was entirely empty, there was no guarantee he'd find anything else out there. Maybe everyone else on the planet was dead.

Maybe he'd killed them all himself.

 _I am utterly alone._

The realization sank in with a crushing force, and he found himself doubled over on his bed, gasping. It was true—he could feel it even without the built-in lie detector. He was alone. Completely and totally. He clutched the sides of his head and tried to beat back the overwhelming and sudden sense of despair, but the isolation just pressed in on him.

 _I am alone, and it's all my fault._

He'd killed dozens of people, pushing everyone away in his quest for power while desperately trying to outrun his own fears of abandonment. Those fears had caught up to him in a big way now, cutting him off from everything.

 _I deserve this, don't I? This is my punishment. I deserve this._

No amount of running could save him anymore.

* * *

It wasn't so bad once he got used to it—and surprisingly, he actually did. Little by little, he adjusted to the extreme isolation. Still, sometimes the loneliness got so bad that he would turn on the TV and hope for something to watch to get his mind off things.

It was always static, though. The TV stations and radio all only had static over the airwaves. Not a hint of a voice, no music. Nothing but white noise.

Every day, as soon as he woke up, he would carve a notch in the wall outside his apartment. Then he would eat breakfast and go out exploring the New York wasteland, throwing some food for lunch into a backpack he'd scrounged up from an OfficeMax twenty blocks away. He would wander the streets until nearly nightfall, half-trying to find a way off the island. Sometimes, without realizing it, he would wander right back to his apartment with no memory of actually turning around.

Sometimes he'd scavenge in department stores for new clothes. Other times, he'd hunt for books. Only a few, ones that he'd already read, interested him, but he had a tendency to be a little careless now—there was no one else around, so who would care if he came back a few times for the same book?

After his explorations, he would head back home and make dinner. He would sit in his study for hours, assembling and disassembling and reassembling his watches and clocks. Sometimes, he would find a watch or a clock in the city and bring it back to take it apart. After six months, his study was filled with clocks. He kept tweaking them to make them run more accurately—it seemed the only ability that didn't go away in his own head was the only ability that was truly his. He couldn't get away from the ticking, but at least it didn't infuriate him when they ran properly. As long as they weren't gaining or losing whole seconds or even half-seconds every hour, he was satisfied. It kept him in his head.

The months rolled into a year, and dragged into a second. The slew of notches in the wall kept growing. As the second year creeped up on the third, he stopped going out as often—and when he went out, it was only to find more food and clocks. He stopped trying to find a way out. Somehow, he just knew there wasn't a way. There was nothing out there. He was stuck forever.

It was strange that he could somehow always find a clock somewhere—sometimes on accident, and sometimes he had to dig for them. It kept him arguably sane, but he somehow knew, deep down, it couldn't last forever. This was a punishment, and the punishment was bound to get worse at some point. Now that he had nowhere to run, it was only a matter of time before the walls closed in and crushed him.

One day, after more than three years alone, that's just what happened.

* * *

He was so focused on the ticking that he almost didn't notice the distant pounding. But he did hear it, and he felt his eyes widen—his heart pounded in uncertainty and _fear_. It was something he hadn't felt in years. But in this land, this wasteland of what New York had been, there were no sounds that he didn't make himself.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, and, for the first time in a long time, he teleported. Every action up to this point had been to take as much time on tasks as possible. He never teleported, never flew, not when walking would kill so much more time. But he teleported now, out into the street, to find out what was happening.

He looked around, took a few steps forward, waiting for the sound again. _"Hello?"_ he called, his voice hoarse from disuse. He wasn't one for talking to himself. He could handle silence—but not when there was sound he _should_ have been hearing. _"HELLO?"_ he shouted, louder now.

He began walking further down the street, hands buried in his pockets, when from behind him, he heard that pounding sound again, what sounded like a metal pipe slamming against pavement. He turned slowly, unsure of what—or who—he'd see.

Even from fifty yards away, down a double yellow line, and even after three years, he recognized the man standing there. "Peter," he breathed.

Peter started walking toward him, and Gabriel found himself approaching him as well. "Is that really you?" he asked, unsure if the other man could hear him. Then again, they were walking through a veritable echo chamber without any noise pollution, so he probably could.

Peter cast the pipe aside, his pace quickening. "I came to get you out of here," he said once they were close enough.

It felt like he couldn't catch his breath. He had to be imagining this. He wasn't sure he'd blinked—he hadn't seen another face in so long that he'd almost forgotten what it was like. Hesitantly, he extended his arm. He wanted to grab Peter, wanted to know once and for all if he was imagining all this, but he was also terrified of having the illusion shattered.

Peter just looked at him like he was crazy—which he probably was, but that wasn't the point. Summoning all his courage, he put his hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed.

Solid. Not an illusion. He could feel muscle and bone beneath Peter's jacket, the slight give of his flesh as his fingers dug in. He had to fight the urge to throw his arms around Peter—any excuse for human contact. How was he alive? Had Peter somehow survived whatever apocalypse he'd rained down? Had he been looking for him all this time? "It is you, isn't it?"

He dropped his arm and took a step back. Peter's expression had shifted to a worried sort of confusion.

"I thought I was alone here, that everyone was dead," he said by way of explanation. "What are you doing here?"

Peter looked like he couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "I came to drag your sorry ass out of here. Now let's go."

 _Go? Go where?_ "There _is_ no getting out of here, Peter. I've tried..." He could barely say the words. "For three years."

"Three years?" The incredulity on Peter's face was almost insulting. "What are you talking about? It's been three hours."

 _Something isn't right here._ "Wait a minute. You're not..." The joy, the giddiness at seeing another human fled him in a rush, leaving him feeling like a deflated balloon. This _was_ just a trick his mind was playing on him. He'd finally gone off the deep end. "...really here," he finished, taking another step back. "You're not real." He turned and stared at the skyscrapers. _Just my mind._ "This is my mind, isn't it? This is my mind playing tricks on me as part of my punishment, isn't it?" Anger built up in his chest as he turned back to face this illusion of Peter Petrelli. "You think I'm gonna let you taunt me? You stay away." He backed up, moving faster away from him. "If you follow me, I will _kill_ you!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Do you understand me?!" He broke into a run.

"SYLAR!" Peter called from behind him, and even though his own footsteps pounded through his body, he could hear the idiot's own footsteps following him as he started sprinting to keep pace.

He made it to his apartment first, but he knew that, despite his warnings, there was no way he could keep Phantom-Peter out. Peter was part of his mind, part of the setting. He couldn't keep him out. Even so, he grabbed a hammer and waited for the front door to fly open.

And it did, only a few moments later. "I swear I'll kill you! Get out of my head!" he growled, brandishing the hammer in Peter's direction.

Peter's hands were up in a placating gesture. "Calm down," he said, sounding only slightly winded. "I'm telling you the truth. I came to take you out of here."

Something in his posture, in his expression, was begging Gabriel to believe him, but he wasn't ready to. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"I went to Parkman's house to look for you. He put you here. This is a dream."

"No, it's _not_ a dream! This is real." It was his punishment. Why couldn't he understand that?

"You really don't understand that this is all just a nightmare?"

"Hell, yes, it's a nightmare—three years, completely alone."

"Not years. Hours. Alright? Parkman trapped you here."

"Parkman? That's impossible."

"Is it? What's the last thing you remember? Before coming here?"

Slowly lowering his arm, his gaze fell to the floor. "I remember... Wanting my life to change, thinking I was gonna spend all of eternity alone."

"Exactly. And here you are. Look, I've got Parkman's ability. I can take you out of here."

This wasn't the Peter that he remembered. "Why would you want to do that? The brother of the man I murdered coming to my aid?"

Peter looked reluctant. "Because I need you to help me. Look, I could leave you here to rot, but I need you to save her—my friend, Emma. In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

That was probably the craziest part of the situation so far. He didn't _save_ people. He only killed. "No. You got the wrong guy. I'm not the savior kind, and you should know that better than anybody."

"It's gonna happen, and you're gonna save her." Peter sounded so sure of it that he almost wanted to believe it, too. He couldn't, not yet, but if Peter really _was_ here and wanted to break him out of this prison, he could work with that.

He dropped the hammer onto the desk. "Fine. You really think you can get us out of here? Let me see you try. Go ahead."

Peter gave him a look somewhere between anger and frustration, and put his hand on Gabriel's shoulder. He closed his eyes, apparently concentrating hard, and for a moment, he felt a frisson, like maybe it was working. But then it was gone, and Peter opened his eyes.

He looked confused and lost and maybe just a little bit afraid.

"See?" Gabriel said. "We're not going anywhere. We're trapped here, forever."


	2. Bad Blood

**Most of the dialogue ripped from 4x17 "The Wall," aside from a nice little smutty bit near the end. BTW, this fic earns its M rating within.**

 _ **"Those are the days that bind us together forever, forever...**_ _ ** _ **  
I don't wanna hear about the bad blood anymore,  
I don't wanna hear you talk about it anymore.  
**_All this bad blood here, won't you let it dry?  
It's been cold for years, won't you let it lie?"**_

* * *

"Give it up, man. You can't go forever without talking to me." Sylar set his backpack down. "I mean, you've gone a month," he admitted. "That's impressive. There isn't anybody out there!" he added, shouting into the void between the buildings. He perched on what looked like an air conditioning unit. "There never will be."

When Peter spoke, he barely recognized his own voice. How had Sylar managed to survive for what seemed to be three years like this? "I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life here, alone with you."

"Wow." Sylar recoiled a bit, and Peter thought he almost looked offended. "It isn't exactly heaven for me, either. Here." He dug something out of his bag and tossed it to Peter. "I know you like comics. I couldn't find _Doc Savage_ or _Flash_ —" He abruptly broke off when Peter lazily dropped the proffered comic from the roof and watched it drop the ten stories or so to the street. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Peter hopped off the ledge, taking a step toward Sylar, who had also gotten to his feet. "You need to stop messing around and focus."

"Oh, focus, right? 'Cause we got to get out of here so we can go rescue... What's her name again?"

Peter didn't recall consciously deciding to do anything, but he watched, as if from a distance, his arm shooting out and his fist connecting squarely with Sylar's nose. Sylar doubled over, cradling his face, and while he wasn't looking, Peter flexed his fingers. Hitting him had actually hurt his hand a bit. "Emma," he muttered. "Her name's Emma."

Sylar straightened up, and suddenly, he was standing at Peter's shoulder—too close. For a second, he thought the other man meant to return the blow, but instead, he just said, "It's time to face reality, Peter. That girl is gone, and if she was meant to kill thousands, they're dead, too. Everybody's dead except us."

"The only thing that's _real_ is us." Still massaging his hand, he turned around and left, hurrying down the stairs to the street.

It really did seem like a month, trapped here with Sylar. The days seemed to last the right amount of time, and the sun had risen and set around thirty times. He'd counted the gouges in the wall that Sylar made—one every morning, thirty-six times since he'd been there—and he'd stopped counting after he'd reached a thousand, leaving over a hundred left. But he knew that a month hadn't really passed on The Outside. If three years was equivalent to three hours, then one year was really one hour. One twelfth of a year was a month, and one twelfth of an hour was five minutes. About thirty days in a month, and three hundred seconds in five minutes. One day here was ten seconds out there. He had to keep that in his head. Only ten seconds really passed when it seemed like a day was slipping by.

Sylar was following him down the street, so he spoke up in order for him to hear. "You think you've been here for years, but this is all just a dream." Maybe he was reminding himself, too.

"If this is all a dream, how are there books, huh?" Sylar pointed out. His voice cracked a bit, like he wanted to believe Peter but couldn't bring himself to. "How did Parkman make books?"

"Because it's your dream."

"How could I possibly know all the words to _Pillars of the Earth_ or _Catch-22_?"

"I don't know, maybe you read it somewhere, and it's in your subconscious." He didn't have a very good handle on this power yet—but he doubted that Parkman did, either. Sylar did make a good point, but Peter _knew_ that it was a dream. He'd been out there just over a month—no, six minutes ago. Thirty-six days. Six minutes.

"Yeah, well, I didn't read _9th Wonders_!" Sylar shouted, flinging the comic at the back of Peter's head. It missed wildly.

"I did."

"So now we're in _your_ head?" Peter had a theory about that, but it was useless to bring it up right now. It was just a theory.

He finally spun around to face Sylar. "I don't know! I don't know how this all works! Don't you want to get out of here?"

Sylar responded too quickly, flinging his arms out in exasperation. "Yeah, of course!" Almost immediately after, he shifted his weight and looked away, turning slowly to avoid meeting his gaze.

Peter looked at him for a long moment, and the truth sank in slowly. "You don't, do you? You don't want to get out of here."

Sylar still didn't look at him; instead he seemed to be more content with studying the ground. "Look, maybe I deserve all this aloneness." He looked up to stare into the sky. "This nothing—maybe I earned it."

Peter didn't have time to deal with his angst, not even when one of their days only actually lasted ten seconds. "Yeah, maybe you have, but I can't do this on my own. I need you to help me. Okay?"

Sylar finally looked up at him. It was odd—the expression on his face was completely alien. Peter had never seen him look so lost. Maybe, somewhere under the façade that was Sylar, buried under all the sarcasm and disdain and murder, Gabriel Gray was still in there and shining through. Maybe there was something about him that was still salvageable.

But then the moment was gone and Sylar slid off his backpack and flung it to the side. He spread his arms and dropped them in an overly-elaborate shrug. "Alright, Peter." He casually closed the distance between them. "You want me to help you?" For a second, Peter was sure he was going to say something obnoxious. But then the perpetually angry look melted off Sylar's face and it was Gabriel—although Peter had no idea what Gabriel Gray had been like—again, penitent and lost. "I want to help."

Peter didn't know what to say. He just nodded, feeling awkward.

Sylar sighed quietly—and then something caught both of their eyes. They both turned. "Where did that come from?"

A brick wall, forty feet high, loomed over their heads just a few feet away from them. Right in the middle of the street, where nothing had been before but empty space, all the way across the street, mortared to the buildings on either side.

It took him a few seconds before he realized where it had come from. "That's the wall from Parkman's basement," he said, taking a few tentative steps forward.

"What's it doing here?"

It hadn't been there before. Not until Sylar decided he wanted to help. Peter had a pretty good idea why it was here now. "This is our way out."

"What?"

"Don't you get it? We have to break through."

* * *

The sound of sledgehammer on brick echoed through the city. He never seemed to make any progress, but he had to keep trying. He wanted to get out, after all.

Really, he thought that Sylar should be the one doing this. After all, it was _his_ head, and _his_ wall, but he would keep it up for as long as he could. It helped that he, at least, didn't seem to get tired.

He was so intent on abusing the wall that he didn't hear Sylar walk up behind him. "Hey. You should eat."

"I don't need to eat," he said between swings, not even sparing a glance at Sylar. "Don't need to sleep. Don't need _anything_." He was going a little crazy, actually. In here, Sylar still seemed to need to do normal things, but Peter was an anomaly, a guest in Sylar's head. The fake rules didn't seem to apply to him. He felt like a Sim with the cheat for max motives enabled. He had nothing but time to whale on this wall.

"Any progress today?" Sylar asked after a few moments. Peter had taken a break to examine the bricks and mortar, running his fingers over the uneven surface of the wall.

He sighed. "No." He was a little winded, even if he wasn't necessarily tired. "It's just like yesterday. And the day before that."

"And the day before that," Sylar added, smacking his hands against the wall. He turned and pressed his back to it.

"Now it's been..." Peter looked at his watch, which was apparently useless. He'd lost count of the days, anyway. "I don't even know how long it's been." Sylar looked like he was about to reply, so he held up a finger and added, "Don't tell me how long it's been."

"You can't even dent it, Peter. I don't know how much longer you can keep this up," Sylar said simply as Peter went to the bag that he'd brought.

He shrugged. "As long as it takes." He fished a water bottle out of the backpack.

"I know that look," Sylar said slowly. "You have it all the time."

"What look?" He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig.

"Like when Howie Kaplan beat you at the fifty-yard dash and you and I ran to school every morning and kept training and kept it up, right?" As Sylar spoke, a nameless rage rose in Peter's chest until he was putting the bottle down and storming over to him. Hell, Sylar probably didn't even realize what he was doing, not really, but it pissed Peter off anyway. This was what happened when you brainwashed a killer, made him wear someone else's face, made him _think_ he was someone else, even giving them someone else's memories. The fact that there was, even now, still a bit of Nathan in there with him just infuriated him all the more. It was bad enough that Sylar had killed him. It was worse when they made Sylar think he _was_ him.

"That is Nathan's memory," he hissed into Sylar's face. "That's not yours. I told you to stop doing that. You're not him." He suddenly realized how close he was to Sylar, almost close enough to kiss if one of them leaned their head forward—too close. He wanted to step back, but he felt like it would be admitting defeat, backing down. "You're nothing like him."

"So you've told me," Sylar said quietly, angrily. He looked at Peter for another second before sidestepping him and walking away, leaving Peter staring at the brick wall.

A hollow feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he picked the sledgehammer back up. By now, he was so used to the new Sylar that he didn't think twice about provoking his anger. This new Sylar behaved less like a cold murderer and more like a caged rat. Peter eyed the wall, trying to decide how best to attack the bricks again when Sylar spoke up again.

"Look, Peter, I know that I've said it before, but..."

Peter swung once, twice, thrice, hoping Sylar would just shut up.

"I'm sorry."

He ignored Sylar and kept trying to break down the wall.

"I'm sorry that I killed him. I'm sorry that I took him from you," he said, louder to be heard over the hollow clank of metal on brick. "I am—"

He couldn't take it anymore. He stopped swinging and whipped around. " _Sorry_? You keep saying that! 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry'! That's not gonna bring my brother back! It doesn't change anything!" He found himself holding out the sledgehammer like he meant to hit Sylar. Maybe he did.

"You're right!" Sylar shouted back. "Nothing changes! We're stuck here forever—you and me!" He turned and located the other sledgehammer, and for a moment, Peter actually thought he was going to brain him with it. But no, a tiny piece of Gabriel Gray was showing through again, something in his eyes that hinted at an unspeakable sadness, one borne of guilt, regret, shame. "I can't take it anymore," he murmured.

"What're you gonna do?" Peter asked, mentally challenging him. This was, after all, _Sylar's_ wall, not his. But Gabriel was melting off his face and his expression hardening into a very Sylar look of anger.

"I'm gonna end this," he spat, and headed right for him.

 _Shit!_ Peter sidestepped him, preparing to defend himself—how, he wasn't sure since Sylar still had all of his powers and Peter only had Parkman's borrowed power—but instead of swinging at him, Sylar slammed the hammer into the wall behind him.

For a few seconds, hollow thuds rang out through the street. They sounded more powerful than Peter's, but he figured Sylar was backing his blows up with one of his abilities.

Sylar paused long enough to say, "I can't bring Nathan back, Peter. But I can sure as hell swing a sledgehammer." Then he was back to attacking the wall.

Peter adjusted his grip and joined him, hitting the wall for all he was worth.

* * *

When Sylar got tired, they stopped for the evening. Peter didn't need to stop, but he felt like it really should be Sylar who was breaking down this wall, not him. At this point, he was just there for solidarity, but he figured that after three years alone, he would appreciate it.

Of course, it was only marginally worse than what seemed like nearly a decade with literally only one person for company, especially the person who'd killed your brother. He kept trying to put that aside—after all, there was literally no one else there—but Peter would sometimes look at him while he was preoccupied and feel nothing but raw loathing. It hurt, nearly killed him, to be around him sometimes.

They settled into a rather domestic sort of routine. Sylar usually woke up around seven—the man had enough clocks in the study that Peter always knew what time it was (useful, since his own watch stopped working here)—and slunk out of his bedroom, fully dressed. He'd pick up a knife, an action that alarmed him the first time he saw it, and go out into the hallway outside the apartment. For a few seconds, there would be a rough scratching sound, and then Sylar would reappear, wiping what looked like sawdust and bits of wallpaper from the blade. Then he'd make breakfast—for both of them, since by now he knew that Sylar was uncomfortable eating alone, even though Peter didn't need to eat—while Peter made a few sandwiches for lunch and tossed them in the backpack with several bottles of water and bags of chips. They'd eat (Peter had no idea where the food was all going because he didn't need to use the bathroom, either; it was like he was caught in some loop outside the flow of time, or maybe, even though his mind was going at the same speed as the time in here, his body was still on Outside time) and clean up the dishes, Sylar always drying them because he knew where to put the dishes after and Peter didn't care to learn where the plates and cutlery went. (At first. As the first year or two passed and they fell into an anxious sort of ease with each other, he gradually learned his way around the apartment like it was his own.)

They would head out to the wall and hammer on it for a few hours, neither of them saying much, and then Sylar would break for lunch and Peter would dutifully eat a sandwich and down a bottle of water. Once in awhile, they would exchange words, not delving too deeply into each others' backstories—he got the impression that Sylar _wanted_ to ask him, but he knew better than to actually do it—which suited him just fine because he didn't want to get close to Sylar at all.

Then they would start to work on the wall again, swinging their hammers and not making a dent in the wall. Sylar could pack more power behind his swings—he was taller and bigger than Peter, although not by much—but Peter didn't tire and could keep going long after Sylar stopped to catch his breath. When night started to fall, they would lean their sledgehammers up against the wall and head back to Sylar's apartment for dinner.

He wondered, as Sylar would get up from his clocks, yawning and stretching and heading to bed, how long they could keep this up. It had only been hours in the real world—he couldn't even be sure of that because Sylar had stopped gouging out lines in the wall, stopping at four thousand, three hundred and ninety-seven—but even so, it was only a matter of time before Samuel weaponized Emma. They didn't have very long, and while he prayed it didn't take another five years or more to break Sylar out of his head, he had a feeling that, considering their progress to this point, it just might.

Sometimes, while Sylar was asleep, he'd head back out to the wall to try to put some damage into it. He was never surprised when it didn't work, but he was always sure to come back before Sylar woke up again.

It helped that the sun rose and set at the same time every day. There were no changing seasons to mark the passage of time. It was always fifty-eight degrees during the day, cool enough for a jacket but warm enough that you could take it off when exertion warmed you up.

More and more, though, despite the anger, despite hating Sylar, he sometimes felt bad for all of this. He hadn't been in on the decision to turn Sylar into Nathan and he would have vetoed it outright if he'd been brought into the discussion, but Sylar had still killed Nathan. It was difficult to reconcile that fact with the man who prepared meals for two even when one didn't need to eat, the man who tried to engage with him sometimes, the man who'd look at him with those big brown eyes of his and make him question everything about this fucked-up situation. The man he'd come here to rescue.

The fact was, Sylar was becoming more and more Gabriel every day, and it was getting difficult to hold onto his anger when Sylar seemed to _be_ Gabriel. It was strange that they had the same face but he could still differentiate between the two. Gabriel's expressions were softer, more vulnerable, hesitant. He almost seemed shy, like he knew Peter probably hated him. Sylar's face was all edges, guarded and angry, brash and full of fury. He was Gabriel when making breakfast and washing dishes and reassembling his timepieces and waking up, but Sylar when he picked up that sledgehammer and beat the unholy shit out of the wall. The fact that he knew all this was a case in point that they needed to get out of here fast, before he did something they'd both regret.

It was getting harder and harder to push it aside, though. When Gabriel was out, he almost wanted to let down his guard. He saw the man he might have been, maybe the man he had been before his ability had destroyed his life and the lives of so many people around him. Even after being sold by his own father (Gabriel— _Sylar_ —had mentioned it, but in such an offhand way that Peter knew he was telling the truth, and Parkman's borrowed ability helped as well), the fact that Gabriel had been so well-adjusted before his power manifested was astonishing. He could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that his _own father_ had sold him like a used couch to another couple, but he seemed to have made peace with that. It just surprised him, now that Sylar was disappearing, how _human_ he seemed. It made it difficult to not forgive him sometimes, to not open up.

So maybe, what happened that one day was inevitable. Sylar wandered out of his bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and set about making breakfast. Peter just watched, shoulder propped against the archway, unsure and undecided. If Sylar was uncomfortable with being watched, he didn't show it. He simply went about the business of dropping bread in the toaster and frying eggs, enough food for four people even though there were only two of them and one of them _didn't actually need to eat_.

Maybe the sheer absurdity of that, of Sylar making more food than entirely necessary, was what decided it for him, but he found himself crossing the kitchen in three quick strides. Sylar—Gabriel?—turned his head just in time to throw him a puzzled look, but Peter had already decided on a course of action and momentum was carrying him now, past the point of no return, and he put his hands to the sides of Gabriel's face—yes, this was Gabriel, a flash of surprise flickered across his face as he realized what Peter was doing just before he actually did it, and Sylar was _never_ surprised by anything—and pulled him down (Gabriel was several inches taller than him and it actually bothered him a bit) and kissed him, hard, in one fluid motion.

Gabriel sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and then there was a clatter as he set the spatula down on the counter before his own hands came up to cradle Peter's face and _oh god he's not pushing me away what do i do_ even though he knew what he _wanted_ to do and it didn't involve them sitting down to enjoy this hearty breakfast that he'd interrupted Gabriel right in the middle of making. Peter's heart was thudding in his chest; he hadn't expected this—Gabriel was supposed to push him away, looking affronted, he wasn't supposed to reciprocate, he was supposed to step back and make Peter feel awkward for wanting to kiss him for what felt like months now, not _encourage_ this, make him want it more.

But it was inevitable now. He wasn't letting Gabriel go, not now. He pushed him to the side, against the counter, and Gabriel's arm flew out for a moment. There was a scraping sound and a snap, and Peter opened an eye long enough to see that Gabriel had pushed the pan of eggs off the hot burner and turned the stove off, probably through telekinesis since his arm wasn't quite _that_ long.

Gabriel pressed them closer together and Peter leaned into him, finding himself threading his fingers through Gabriel's hair. The kiss deepened and Gabriel shivered against him, his arms suddenly wrapping around Peter's waist, and Peter hated himself for wanting him even more.

He could tell that Gabriel was letting him take the lead, like Gabriel knew he was struggling with this, and he appreciated it. His resistance crumbling, he pushed Gabriel's jacket from his shoulders. Gabriel shrugged out of it and tossed it aside, keeping close enough to Peter that they never broke the kiss, not that he wanted to. He wasn't sure how long he could hold himself back, not when Gabriel made that sound in the back of his throat, that low moan that drove Peter a little bit crazy. That had to be the reason his hands flew to Gabriel's belt and started fumbling with it, his fingers shaking so badly it took him nearly fifteen seconds to get it open. Maybe he was pushing out a bit of Parkman's power without realizing it because Gabriel seemed to understand what was happening without them actually discussing it. He unbuttoned and unzipped Peter's jeans without bothering to pull off his shirt and his hand was down his jeans and stroking him and Peter's head fell back momentarily, gasping, breaking the kiss before Gabriel caught the back of his head with his free hand to press their mouths back together and Peter drank it in, the feeling of Gabriel's lips parting against his, his knees trembling and his hands tugging at Gabriel's pants.

He tried to stay in control—of himself, anyway—but he was pushing into Gabriel's hand and hooking his fingers into the waistband of his dark jeans and boxers and pulling them down. Gabriel leaned back against the counter and to his perspective, it had been _years_ since he'd done this, but Gabriel felt so good pressed to him like this.

Gabriel pulled back a few inches and Peter opened his eyes, the moment between them stretching out for centuries. If he was going to stop this, this was the last chance. After this, there was no going back. "Turn around," Peter whispered. Gabriel just nodded, one quick twitch of his head, and turned, setting his hands on the countertop.

Peter stuck two fingers in his mouth and licked them until they were covered in spit. He put his other hand on Gabriel's shoulder and, as gently as possible, guided his fingers into Gabriel. Gabriel's eyes slid shut and his jaw dropped open and his fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter and a deep, lingering groan escaped him. Peter tried to go slowly, tried to keep himself in check, but Gabriel was already rocking back against his fingers and Peter tightened his grip on Gabriel's shoulder and pushed his fingers in deeper, twisting them to spread him open.

Gabriel's arms gave out and he slumped fully against the counter. _"Oh, God,"_ he gasped, a breathy sound followed by a loud, shaky moan. "Yes..."

Peter bit his lip and pushed in a third finger. He didn't want to take too long and run the risk of Gabriel coming like this, but he didn't want to go too fast and end up hurting him, either. It was going to be a thin line.

Gabriel was panting. His knuckles white from clinging so hard to the countertop, he kept pushing back against Peter's hand, trying to take him deeper. Peter felt like his brain was frying but he couldn't stop, didn't even _want_ to stop.

"Please..." Gabriel breathed, and Peter tapped into Parkman's power for long enough to see what Gabriel was begging for. He was only too happy to acquiesce.

He withdrew his fingers and licked his palm to cover his cock. It wasn't ideal, but it got the job done. It would be easier on The Outside, but...

He tried not to think about that right now, instead lining himself up with Gabriel's entrance and pushing in.

Gabriel let out another groan, and Peter found himself with both hands on Gabriel's hips, fingernails digging into the soft skin, and Gabriel was so hot and inviting that it reduced him to something primal, to the animal in him that just wanted to fuck. He thrust into Gabriel again and again, drawing more of those delicious sounds out of his mouth, moans and gasps and whines and a muffled yelp as Peter found his sweet spot, and he just couldn't stop himself from breathing, "God, _Gabriel_..."

As if those two words had unlocked something in him, suddenly Gabriel was talking, murmuring nearly nonstop, insensible sounds. Peter thought he heard his own name in there more than a few times and it spurred him to go faster, harder, until Gabriel let go of the countertop with one hand and wrapped it around his own cock and his head fell back. "Oh, fuck, yes—Peter, _fuck_ —harder—God, yes-yes- _yes—please, Peter, I'm so close_ —!" He cried out and Peter could feel the shudders wracking his body and Gabriel was still making those sounds and it was all too much at once; Peter finished a moment later with a groan escaping through clenched teeth.

For nearly a minute, they stayed there, both trying to catch their breath. Sylar had been in here for over a decade, and Peter had been with him for most of that time, so he supposed it made sense that it didn't last as long as it could have, but he still felt a bit of satisfaction anyway. Of course, he _had_ just fucked the man who killed his brother, so once his heart rate returned to normal he pulled away and averted his eyes to the other man in question could put himself back together, too.

"I'm... gonna go shower," Gabriel murmured once he'd pulled his pants back up.

Peter nodded. That was fair enough. He'd clean up in here while Gabriel was in the shower, and then... Well, who knew? Things were going to be awkward between them until they discussed this, but he really didn't want to talk about it right now.

Once Gabriel had slunk out of the kitchen, Peter set to work cleaning up the mess (he'd cleaned much worse messes as a nurse). The last thing either of them needed was come on the floor, plus the toast had long since popped up (he'd totally missed that) and the eggs were nearly cold. He threw away the food and washed the dishes, not knowing how long Gabriel would be but wondering if he should start on breakfast, part two, now or wait until he got out of the shower.

It was nearly a half an hour before the water in the bathroom turned off, and ten more minutes before Peter even caught another glimpse of Gabriel—and that's just what it was, a brief sighting as he passed the kitchen and disappeared out the front door.

"Weird," he murmured to himself, but let him go without following him. He figured Gabriel deserved some time to himself after what had just happened. He knew _he_ needed some, anyway. He tried to shake the feeling that it had been a mistake—after all, it hadn't really felt like it at the time—but by the time the sun had set and dusk had nearly melted into full night, he still hadn't returned, so he and went out to find him. He was pretty sure he knew where he'd gone, anyway. It was the place that occupied most of their waking thoughts—he didn't need Parkman's ability to know that.

On his way out, he raided one of the bookstores that used to litter the storefronts. Only about a week ago (from their perspective, so about a minute ago in real time), Sylar's copy of _The Pillars of the Earth_ had finally fallen apart. The binding disintegrated and reams of pages had fallen to the floor, covering Gabriel's shoes. He'd looked so crushed that Peter had decided to find him a new copy.

Not that he had ever mentioned _wanting_ a new one. He hadn't been aware of Peter's presence, hovering in the doorway of the study before ducking away. He hadn't wanted to intrude on a private moment.

He managed to locate a new copy, in hardcover, on one of the shelves. He wrapped it in newspaper and sealed it with tape, both of which were found at the front of the store. He thought Gabriel would appreciate it.

He found him sitting cross-legged in front of the wall, staring up at it in the darkness. The streetlights weren't much help here—the wall towered over them, nearly twice their height. Gabriel didn't turn as he approached; he probably didn't even hear him. Peter gently bumped his shoulder with the book as he passed, causing Gabriel to whip his head in the other direction. Peter just dropped the book into his lap and kept walking to the wall. "Happy birthday," he joked.

"It's not my birthday."

 _Obviously._ He didn't even know what day it was, let alone what day Gabriel's birthday was. "Yeah. I know. You just wore out your other copy, and..."

Gabriel had torn open the newspaper wrapper. He stared down at the book like it was his firstborn.

"...and I saw that one, digging around." He wasn't going to tell Sylar that he'd gone out of his way to find it.

Sylar looked stunned, like he couldn't believe Peter would give him anything. It was getting awkward, so Peter decided to keep right on talking. "I appreciate you..." He swallowed. "...being patient with me. Keeping me sane." The days were taking a toll on him (see: the temporary loss of sanity that led to their tryst in the kitchen), but at least he had someone else with him. How had Sylar survived _three years_ of this, all alone?

"That's very kind of you, Peter," Gabriel murmured. "Thank you."

Peter nodded, feeling awkward, and turned back to the wall. He picked up the nearer of the two sledgehammers and took a step back, eyeing the bricks.

"You want to know something weird?" Sylar asked abruptly. Peter heard him getting to his feet behind him. He waited for an answer, but when he didn't get one, Sylar just barreled on, saying, "Every time you pick that thing up, I think you're gonna hit _me_ with it—really hard."

Peter couldn't help his quiet laugh and faced him. "That _is_ weird, because every time I pick it up, I feel like I'm gonna hit you with it, too. Really hard."

"Why?"

He sighed, the brief joviality gone. "Because you are who you are. I wish I could accept your apologies, but if I forgive _you_ , then I'm not doing right by _him_."

"Nathan... If you let go of your anger, you're afraid you'll lose him forever? So you've held onto it this entire time?"

Peter shifted his weight. "I feel it slipping away, but... when I look at you, I see you killing him. You took my brother away from me."

Sylar was frustrated—he could tell from his hurried approaching footsteps. "We've been here for I don't know how many years," he started as Peter began swinging at the wall. "Together. I've changed. I've repented. I'm never gonna hurt anyone ever again."

Peter just kept swinging. He wasn't sure if he believed Sylar or not. He wanted to, but it was too good to be true. Even after this morning... Well, part of him still hated himself for that.

"And all this time, you were afraid to let me out." He looked wounded. Peter hated seeing him look like that, his brown eyes big and pleading. They could pull him right back in if he wasn't careful. He quickly focused back on the wall.

"Peter!" Gabriel stepped between him and the wall, forcing them to make eye contact. He shook his head subtly. "I'm not that guy anymore, Peter. You know that."

He wanted to bash his face in with the hammer. But he couldn't. He knew he was telling the truth. He was, more and more, melting back into Gabriel. Hell, maybe it even truly _was_ Gabriel Gray standing in front of him, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. And maybe it wouldn't be a total betrayal to Nathan to forgive him. "I know," he said. "I know you're not." He inhaled to say something else—what, he wasn't sure, maybe to say something about _them_ —but he decided against it at the last minute and swung at the wall again.

A shard of brick chipped off and tumbled to the ground, crumbling to dust. A dent sat in its place, looking contentedly back at him. _That wasn't so hard, was it?_ Stunned, he lowered his hammer and looked at Gabriel.

He was looking at the dent, too, his gloriously thick eyebrows furrowed in surprise and disbelief. He whipped around to stare at Peter for a second, and then wordlessly picked up the other sledgehammer while Peter started in on the wall again.

With every strike of their sledgehammers against the brick, more pieces broke off until there was a small hole clean through. A bright light poured out. _We're getting through!_ They whacked at it with more energy than before, more than Peter had thought possible, but the end was in sight and every swing brought more and more light into view and—

Peter's eyes fluttered open. He blinked and took stock of his surroundings.

He was sitting on a floor, his back propped up against something rigid, unyielding. _Parkman's basement._ The brick wall behind which Gabriel lay, fighting to break out. _I'm back!_

He quickly climbed to his feet and looked around. It had been _years_ since he had been down here, and he was disoriented. Even though he knew it hadn't really been years, it felt like it to his confused brain. At least he hadn't aged while he was in Gabriel's head.

He faced the wall, astonished to hear what sounded like bricks clattering on the other side. He pressed his ear to the wall to listen harder. It sounded like it was intensifying...

 _Shit!_

He rolled across the floor, away from the wall, and not a moment too soon. The bricks and mortar flew apart with violent force, covering everything in the basement with a fine layer of dust, including Peter himself. He was glad it was only dust, though. He wouldn't want to get brained with an errant brick, not after years of work to bust him out of there in the first place.

He heard a groan from behind him. Probably Sylar, but he didn't bother to look. He was coughing so hard he nearly threw up. Once he got it under control, he looked back at the wall and the hole smack in the middle of it.

Sylar slowly climbed out, hunching his six-foot-plus frame to avoid hitting his head. He looked around in confusion, lowering his hand from his head. He looked utterly lost. "How long has it been? Really?"

Peter checked his watch. "Half a day. Maybe." Nine hours since he'd gone in. _Nine years._ He had been in Gabriel's head for _nine years_. He was drained.

"It feels like we were in there for years."

"Yeah." Drained and in desperate need of human contact besides the man standing in front of him.

"Does that make it any less real?" He was pretty sure he knew what Gabriel was asking about.

It was a good question, and it was still real. Very real. But right now, it wasn't important. "Let's go save Emma."

It was Gabriel who started walking first, heading toward the stairs, but Peter was still ahead of him. They didn't make it very far, though, because there was a stranger standing on the stairs, blocking their way up.

"Sorry to break up the love fest, but I'm here to make sure that that doesn't happen."

* * *

 **So yeah, the next chapter will probably finish with "Brave New World" and then after that, chapters of purely my own invention (and I'll probably wait for the next episode of Heroes Reborn to write the next chapter since the most recent episode hinted that certain events may change).  
**


	3. Sleepsong

**Okay, so. This has stuck in my craw. I'm at over 10k words for this fic already, but I haven't gotten a single review. Either on here or AO3, which is really obnoxious . (And I know people are reading this. I have bookmarks and kudos and hits, but not a single comment or review.) So here's the deal: NaNoWriMo starts on Sunday. All of my fics are taking a back burner to the novel I'll be working on. If, come 12:00 AM on the morning of December 1, I still don't haven any reviews or comments, I will not continue this fic. I hate to be that guy, but I've also never been in this situation before, and I'm not going to keep writing a fic that isn't getting attention. At least, not publishing it. (My best friend is a diehard Pylar shipper, so I'll probably keep writing for him.)**

 **Anyway! I like this chapter because the identity of the third Ali Larter sister (Barbara) was never really explained, at all, except that she exists and she's identical to Niki and Tracy. So... Barbara Solomon. (Sanders, Strauss, Solomon. I kept up with the theme.)**

 _ **"Don't talk to strangers,**_

 _ **And don't walk into danger...**_

 _ **You go to sleep on your own and you**_

 _ **Wake each day with your thoughts and it**_

 _ **Scares you, being alone,**_

 _ **It's a last resort."**_

* * *

As soon as Claire finished speaking, the reporters mobbed her, demanding more answers. Noah stayed back, clearly disapproving, but he didn't interfere. Hiro and Ando spoke quietly in Japanese, probably discussing whether or not to disappear.

Gabriel took a step back without realizing it. It wasn't until his mission was accomplished that the reality of the situation sank in. With nothing else to distract him, he was able to fully absorb it.

He took another, conscious step back. Peter didn't seem to notice.

He'd forgotten how loud people could be. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be trapped in a crowd, penned like an animal. Three years alone followed by nine more with only one other person had destroyed his sense of normalcy. A flicker of panic rose in his chest, nearly suffocating him, and he spun around and started running as far away from the carnival as he could get.

The truly eerie thing about the New York City of his head was how he'd nearly always been alone, no matter where he went. Now, it was the opposite: he needed to be alone, and there was no place he could go. Except for his apartment, of course, but the thought of being in that place, where he'd spent the better part of twelve years, was exhausting. He couldn't go home. Not tonight. Not after what happened in the kitchen.

As the memory washed over him, he slowed to a walk. The carnival was only so many twinkling lights in the distance, and the blessed darkness was closing in. Central Park wasn't empty by any stretch of the imagination, but at least he wasn't surrounded anymore. He didn't even think he could look at Peter anymore. Now that he'd rescued Emma—or at least distracted Doyle long enough to allow Emma to rescue herself—he had a chance to contemplate what had transpired between him and Peter.

It had been a moment of weakness. For both of them. Peter wanted nothing to do with him—and why would he? He had Emma, after all, and Gabriel had killed Peter's brother. Peter could forgive, but forgetting would be infinitely more difficult.

He should have pushed Peter away. He would have, if he'd known what was good for him. But after all that time alone, a little bit of contact, more of the human experience, was exactly what he'd been craving.

He kept walking, trying to push it out of his head, but he kept circling back to it. Even outside of Central Park, bumping into people— _Where did they all come from? Oh, wait, this is normal_ —he couldn't ignore it. He finally paused on the sidewalk and looked up, and a strange, unexpected bit of peace washed over him. He would be okay. Maybe not right now, but eventually.

He came back to himself and looked around. He'd inexplicably stopped at a hotel, and he realized that while he was exhausted, going home was not an option tonight. There was no harm in seeing if this place still had rooms available.

He stepped through the sliding doors into a brightly-lit lobby, all white marble and glass sculptures and furniture that looked more decorative than a place where people actually sat and relaxed. It looked too clean, entirely at-odds with how he felt. He slowly began inching toward the doors again when a pleasant voice called out to him, "Can I help you, sir?"

He looked toward the voice, heart thudding—it sounded oddly familiar. And for good reason.

If she had been anyone else, he would have just waved his hand and left without a word, but she _wasn't_ anyone else. "Tracy?" he asked, uncertain. He hadn't seen Tracy Strauss in—well, he didn't actually know how long it had been. He wouldn't have expected her to be working the front desk of a hotel, though, so...

"Hmm? No, my name is Barbara," she said, smiling at him like she knew a secret.

The name clicked. He didn't know where he'd heard it before, but it had been in relation to Niki Sanders and Tracy Strauss, who had been two of an identical set of triplets.

Barbara. The third sister. "It wasn't an accident that I came in here, was it?" he asked, approaching the front desk.

She kept smiling, tossing her hair slightly in a way he supposed was meant to convey innocence. "I assume you came here to check in, correct?"

"That's... not what I meant. You were adopted, weren't you? Adopted at birth?"

Her smile faltered a bit. "How did you—?"

"Because I met your sisters. Both of them. Nicole and Tracy."

"Sisters?"

"You didn't know," he half-asked.

"No, I... I didn't," she said quietly. The bell in his head wasn't ringing, so he knew she wasn't lying. "Wait, how do you know all this? How did you... about these sisters?"

"I met them. All three of you are identical. You're triplets. I just... Niki lived in Nevada, near Las Vegas, and Tracy lives... well, the last I saw her, she was here on the East Coast. I almost expected that if I ever met you, it would be in Wisconsin or something."

"I just moved," Barbara said faintly. "From Minnesota. My sisters... how well did you know them?"

Gabriel's voice dropped to ensure that no one else could hear him. Not, he supposed, that it mattered anymore, considering Claire had just let the cat out of the bag in a big way, but he wouldn't begrudge Barbara her desire to stay hidden if she wanted. "Well enough to know they both had abilities. Niki had inhuman strength and Tracy... well, she redefined the term 'ice queen.' So I'm guessing you have some kind of power as well."

She glanced to the sides quickly. "You'd be guessing right." She smiled again. "As a matter of fact, you weren't wrong when you guessed it wasn't an accident you came in here."

"You can influence people's thoughts?" _That_ almost seemed like Parkman's ability, without the mind-reading part of it.

"Not exactly. I can sense and manipulate the emotions in a room. It makes life pretty easy for me—I moved here two weeks ago and I already got a job and an apartment. People say I just put them at ease." Her smile widened into a grin, baring her teeth. "I saw you when you were out there. Usually, I just kind of let my calming presence radiate out, but you had distress rolling off you in sheets, so..." She shrugged. "Just wanted to help you out a bit. So I shot you with a direct beam of it."

"I felt it. That was incredible. The distress, was that all you felt?"

"No, you were also panicking. Not right then, but you still had some of it on you, so not too long ago. Your clothes absorb your emotions, by the way. And you're... you're lonely. You've been alone for a long time. Years." Her eyes grew dreamy and distant, like she wasn't focusing so much anymore except on her power. It was something he'd witnessed before whenever Peter mentioned The Dream that told him that _he_ , Gabriel, would be the one to save Emma. "There's hope, though, like you're turning your life around. And..." Her eyes widened a bit and snapped right on him. "Heartbreak. Underneath everything, you're still in pain."

 _Ouch._ That hit a little too close to home. "That's an uncanny power," he murmured.

"And now you're nervous." She sighed softly, and a moment later, he felt another soothing wave hit him.

"You pushed that out?"

"You looked like you needed it. Again. So, do _you_ have a power?"

"Yes. It's... complicated. I understand how things work." He definitely wasn't about to explain the part where he killed for abilities for three years. That wasn't a good way to continue a conversation."

"Fair enough. I suppose not everyone should be able to teleport. What happened to you, anyway? To cause all that trauma, I mean."

"I _have_ been alone for years. Over a decade. I mean, literally alone. I can't explain it, it'd take too long, but trust me, for nine years, I literally only saw one other face."

She cocked her head to the side. "You didn't just bust out of solitary confinement, did you?" She laughed a bit, as though to take some of the sting out of the question.

"In a way, I did. Not at a regular prison, don't worry—you won't find any APBs out for me. But..." He was exhausted. Even with Barbara constantly covering him with that comforting aura she had, it was all more social interaction than he'd had in years, and he was drained.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's okay. I'd wonder, too." He ran his fingers through his hair. This was the most intense psychoanalysis he'd ever undergone. "So are there any rooms available tonight?"

"Yes, actually," Barbara said brightly. "Let me check..." She looked down to type on her keyboard for a few moments, and Gabriel looked around awkwardly until she spoke up again. "We have four single kings available, a double, and three suites. We had a few cancellations," she added.

"How much is a suite?" He absolutely didn't need one, but he absolutely didn't care, either. After saving thousands of lives and having his heart kicked in the ass (no, he didn't hate Peter, but he hated himself for caring even a little), he just wanted a retreat.

"Four-fifty a night."

"Two nights."

"Okay. I need an ID and a credit card. Any luggage?"

He shook his head and pulled out his wallet. "I live in the city, I just don't feel like going home tonight."

She nodded. "I completely under..." Her voice trailed off and a curious expression crossed her face before she turned her head to look out toward the street. Gabriel couldn't help but followed her gaze.

And then immediately wished he hadn't.

Peter was standing out there on the sidewalk, looking right at them with the same sort of surprise that Gabriel was probably looking at _him_ with. Peter seemed rooted to the spot for a moment, but then he was moving, hurrying through the sliding glass doors into the lobby.

Barbara inhaled sharply. "Oh, my God," she breathed, her voice cracking, and then she doubled over with laughter.

"What the hell?" Peter asked. "Niki? Or are you Tracy?"

"She's Barbara," Gabriel corrected. "The third sister."

Barbara finally stopped giggling, but she continued to smirk. "Barbara Solomon. I met..." She checked the ID in front of her. "Gabriel Gray here, so who are you?"

"Peter. Petrelli. Did he tell you about...?"

"My sisters? He sort of filled me in. On their powers and the fact that we're apparently triplets. I assume you have some sort of power, too, huh?"

"Yeah, I do. Look, Barbara, can you give us a second? I need to talk to Sy—Gabriel for a minute."

"I have a better idea. Let me finish checking in Gabriel, and then the two of you can head up there and... talk." She smirked, and Gabriel immediately knew what she was insinuating. She had a better understanding of the situation than he gave her credit for. He would have been impressed if he wasn't so flat-out embarrassed.

Peter stuttered without saying anything before Barbara just shook her head, giggling again. " _Man_ , you two have issues."

"She can sense people's emotions," Gabriel explained.

"And the two of yours? Pretty much identical right now." She seemed highly amused by that fact, although Gabriel was getting stuck on "pretty much identical." He was mad at himself and embarrassed, but he couldn't help the tiny bit of happiness he felt at seeing Peter again. Even if he couldn't look at him without seeing Emma in his peripherals, some part of him was still happy to have Peter next to him.

Peter was feeling the same thing?

"Got you all checked in," Barbara said, handing Gabriel his ID, credit card, and a tiny envelope with the card key in it. "There's two keys in there." She winked deliberately at him. "Y'know, in case you lose one. Take it upstairs, boys."

"Hasn't anyone told you not to talk to strangers?" Peter asked her as he started following Gabriel to the elevators.

"There's no one stranger than me," she chirped back.

"She seems... enthusiastic," Peter grumbled.

Gabriel hit the button for the elevator. "With her power, I don't blame her. Just before you walked in, she told me exactly what I was feeling."

"And what was that?"

"Where's Emma?" Gabriel countered.

"Emma?" Peter seemed genuinely confused. "She's at home. She had a rough night." He furrowed his eyebrows as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. "Are you jealous of her?"

"Peter, we both know this is a mistake. Don't push it." Gabriel stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the fifteenth floor, waiting for Peter to try to force his way on with him, but he didn't.

"Shouldn't we talk about this?" Peter asked. The doors started to close.

"There's nothing to talk about," Gabriel said, and hated himself for saying.

The doors closed on Peter's stunned expression.

* * *

 **There is no way that Peter and Gabriel, having been alone for 9/12 years (show's canon says 5 but that's BS because half a day is 12 hours, not 5, so Sylar was in there for 12 years, not 5), would not be severely fucked-up afterwards. Gabriel, at least, doesn't socialize well.  
**

 **Also, I love Barbara.**


End file.
